


After Divorce Does Them Part

by nbarker1990



Category: The Voice (US) RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 00:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7076764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nbarker1990/pseuds/nbarker1990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s somewhat troubling to her that even after more than a decade of knowing (because it wasn’t exactly a state secret) that her husband couldn’t, or chose not to, stay faithful to her, she stills feels like she ought to be faithful to *him*.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Divorce Does Them Part

She’s worn a hell of a lot of hats over the years (singer, songwriter, designer, mother; the list seems never-ending, which is somewhat gratifying), and she’s recently come to realize how much of her identity and self-worth was bound up in that hat labeled ‘wife’. It’s somewhat troubling to her that even after more than a decade of knowing (because it wasn’t exactly a state secret) that her husband couldn’t, or chose not to, stay faithful to her, she stills feels like she ought to be faithful to _him_. It feels odd not wearing his ring, and it feels odder still when she flirts. She’s never been averse to playing up her sex appeal, and flirting with the men in her life – dancers, producers, singers – is part of that. It’s always been innocent and both parties knew it. Now, though, there’s an added edge, a tension, because she knows that it can lead somewhere. And that’s where the guilt starts to creep in.

 

“Couldn’t have given us a little more of that dance?” Blake asks with a grin, twisting in his chair to better face her. He’s done that a lot more this season than last, and she’s still not quite sure whether it’s just a result of knowing her better than he did during the Season 7 blinds, or whether it’s because her ring finger is now bared when they’re not filming. And because his is too. The first time they’d reconvened to talk about the new season, she’d known immediately that something was wrong, had seen her own hurt mirrored in his eyes and even his posture. After he’d talked to the producers and colleagues, he’d talked to her alone, a few minutes of shared commiseration and a long ass hug. They’d jumped right into the deep end (and she hadn’t even known he _had_ depths) and started exchanging emails the very next day. It had been almost easier than talking to Jen or Sophie, being able to just type her feelings out without having to see the other person’s reaction. They had both admitted how fucking stupid they felt, how love and hate apparently _could_ co-exist, and had even once agreed that maybe they needed some kind of rebound to help them cope. He hadn’t offered.

A few weeks later, he still hadn’t. But he’d started flirting. And she was flirting back.

“Love the dress, by the way,” he adds, laughing when Pharrell rolls his eyes. “Looks better each day.”

It didn’t, but the compliment never failed to warm her up from the insides out. It was a strange time, so very real and heavy in its darkness, but also dreamlike and hazy in odd little moments. At night she often found it difficult to sleep, tossing and turning and overthinking every last detail of the past twenty years with Gavin. She’d wake up exhausted and maybe even a little depressed, and then she’d head to the set. The atmosphere there was different. She didn’t have photographs and knick knacks and memories that kept assaulting her, and so she could relax somewhat, even have fun.

And it _was_ fun.

“Your shirt, on the other hand, is becoming uglier every time I’m forced to look at it,” Gwen retorts and no, it’s not exactly the snappiest of comebacks, but it’s unnerving her, this easy banter they have going. Adam seems more concerned than annoyed and that kind of worries her as well. It’s not going anywhere, whatever this is, and while she loves that he cares about Blake, it’s not exactly like she’s about to break his already broken heart again. Flirting is simply a relief, an assurance that she’s still able to feel, to enjoy, to attract and be attracted.

 

* * *

 

Filming finishes late and, as has become their habit these past few days, Blake sits in her trailer while she retreats to her normal everyday self – less make-up (and then her people leave and she’s _pretty_ sure the atmosphere changes), jeans and tank top, and a loose ponytail. She’s watching him in the mirror as she runs a comb through her hair and it’s disconcerting to recognize the expression he’s wearing as the same one he’s had all week during these minutes alone. It’s kind of intense and so she’s tried to avoid spending too much time considering what it might mean, if it even means anything at all.

“One day, I’m gonna get you in this chair and give you a makeover,” she says, almost hoping she’ll scare him off. Blake doesn’t scare easily, though, and instead he stalks (at least, that’s what it feels like) over to her, coming to a stop a mere inch away. _He_ frightens _her_.

“I’m game if you are. Can we start with the clothes?”

His hands move to her shoulders and oh god, he’s actually going to give her a massage, isn’t he? And yep, there it is, and why hadn’t she realized how big and strong his fingers are? Because christ almighty… He digs in and it’s a little painful but mostly it’s just a whole lot of good. She’s tempted to just give herself over to the feeling, to close her eyes, drop the comb, and just enjoy his touch. “The clothes?” she eventually asks, slightly confused, because since when did he have an interest in fashion?

He bends down and his mouth is so close to her skin that she can feel the warmth of his breath. If she tries really hard, she can imagine the way it would feel if he were to gently trace the shell of her ear with his tongue. She shouldn’t be doing that, though, not because she’s getting divorced but because it’s way, way, way too soon. She’s sure of that. Sort of. “I’m mostly interested in the getting rid of the clothes part, if we’re being perfectly honest…”

 

Gwen isn’t sure what the best way to react is but she doesn’t have time to consider it thoroughly because she thinks her brain is short-circuiting. Or blowing up. He’s not supposed to say things like and yet she knows she heard him correctly. Before she can reconsider, she’s out of her chair and shoving him against the wall. His lips are slightly parted, probably from shock at her forwardness, and she takes advantage of the situation, nipping at his lower lip and demanding entrance with her tongue.

“Gwen,” he groans, and then she thinks that maybe he’s taken leave of his senses too (and she’s not complaining) because his hands are on her ass and he’s pressing her up against him so tightly that thinks his belt buckle will probably leave an imprint. “Gwen, Gwen, Gwen…”

Her name is like a prayer on his lips and she wants to worship him too. She’s always found him handsome in an objective kind of way but now she thinks she would be hard-pressed to make a list where anyone is more desirable. Danilo had once said that if Blake were gay, he’d want to climb him like a tree and right now, as he uses his strength to lift her and change their positions so _she’s_ the one with her back against the wall, she sympathizes with that expression all too well. He quickly finds her mouth again, tangling her tongue with his like they’re about to run out of time and he wants to make the best of it. She hasn’t made out with someone like this in god knows how long and she has a faint worry in the back of her mind that it would damned easy to grow addicted to his taste.

She lets herself grind down on him a little because his dick is noticeably hard now and why not. Why stop. Later, she’ll probably come up with about a thousand reasons as to why this can Go No Further and is a Bad Idea, but that moment isn’t now. Now is a time for her wetness and his hardness and how he’s carrying her over to the couch in a way which makes her feel ridiculously feminine but also strangely powerful. And that’s _not_ what this is. This is probably some kind of ‘needing to get over my ex’ sex with a side dish of ‘you’re hot and I’m horny’, and that’s okay too.

 

“Please…” she begs and somehow he knows what she’s asking because removing her shirt is the work of a mere second and the bra is being thrown across the room just as quickly. She helps him out of his faded blue button-down and she doesn’t bother taking time to examine his body, just traces him with her curious fingers, learning him by touch only. His lips are on her breasts the moment she shamelessly thrusts them up towards him, and all she can think about is how much she needs this, how much she wants this man.

“Condom?” she asks breathily, stroking him through those damned jeans he’s always in. His fingers have been clumsily working at removing her own pants (he keeps getting distracted by her bare skin, and his touch has her hot and bothered in a way she hasn’t been for years, probably), and he stops the moment the question is asked. And shit shit shit. He swears, too, out loud. More colorfully.

“I didn’t think - ”

She laughs, a short huff, which is probably mostly embarrassment and also frustration. “Neither did I,” Gwen admits, and he kisses her for that, an affectionate peck on her lips, which really has no place in what they’ve been doing for the last ten minutes. It feels normal and couple-ish, and they’re not that, never will be.

“We can still - ” He trails off and he’s looking right at her and suddenly everything is more than a little awkward. She hates it, especially hates the way she’s suddenly aware of how she’s almost naked beneath his large body. She doesn’t mind being naked, not at all, but…

“God, you’re hot,” he says, his head falling to her chest and his arms coming around her. And in that moment, she knows this can’t be the end. It just can’t. “So hot.”

“Not so bad yourself, cowboy,” she murmurs into his slightly damp, curling hair. He’s flushed and shirtless and _cuddling_ her, and she wants to take a photo, wants to remember this moment forever. Blake’s always been physically affectionate – with her, but also with anybody else who steps within a foot of him, it seems. Having all that directed towards her, surrounding her, just makes her wonder how the hell Miranda could give it up, could even want or need anything more. She knows her friend isn’t perfect and he’s admitted that he hadn’t been the best of husbands, but god, even knowing that, if she’d had _HIM_ for a partner instead of Gavin… Well, the idea actually hurts a little.

 

They’re laying on their sides, face to face, legs twined, when he finally speaks again. “S’pose we should get dressed. Don’t think that door is locked.”

The image she suddenly has in her mind, of various family, friends and colleagues, rushing into the room to find her simply relaxing whilst almost naked in the arms of a shirtless man? Well, it has her desperately trying to extricate herself from Blake’s embrace. It’s not as easy as she would’ve anticipated; the man’s long legs and arms definitely come in handy when it comes to trapping her in place. 

“Hey, hey…” he says, his hands caressing her back in a stilling motion. Looking into his eyes, she sees too much, wonders if she’s imagining it. There’s a caring there, a concern, and it’s enough to make her cry. Maybe that’ll come later when she’s all alone in bed for yet another long night of damnable thoughts and memories. “It’s okay.”

He hesitates, and moves them to a sitting position before casually gathering their clothing from the floor and bringing it to the couch. He helps her clasp her bra and she helps him with his belt. It’s unnecessary but she’s still feeling sexually frustrated and touching him is too much of a temptation. Blake apparently feels the same way, dropping kisses on almost every inch of skin that he then covers up. And the fact that he’s putting her clothes on instead of taking them off suddenly seems like the wrongest thing that could happen.

 

“Raincheck?” he asks with a soft smile as he brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. Gwen knows she probably looks like a mess right now but she honestly can’t bring herself to care; he’s looking at her like maybe this wasn’t just a one-time experiment after all. 

“I’d like that.”

He takes her hand in his, slides his fingers between hers, and then they’re palm to palm. Her chest tightens a little, that uncomfortable feeling of nerves and anticipation and hope, please let this be hope. Blake brushes a kiss on her cheek like he does this every day (she’s missed the normality of having a partner, the little things she’d taken for granted, more than anything else), and leads them out the door.


End file.
